


In Via ad Virtutem: Adeptus Rising

by ravenwolf2007



Series: In Via ad Virtutem [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, F/F, F/M, Harry is Lord Potter, Heir of Slytherin, International Confederation of Wizards - Freeform, Lordships, M/M, Manipulative Albus Dumbledore, Marriage Contracts, Mentor Severus Snape, Minor Albus Dumbledore/Gellert Grindelwald, Powerful Harry Potter, Powerful Neville Longbottom, Powerful Voldemort, Pre-Canon, Pre-Slash, Pureblood Politics (Harry Potter), Pureblood Traditions, Severus Snape is Lord Prince, Sirius Black in Azkaban, The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, Wizarding Nobility, Wizarding Royalty, betrothals, world building
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-14 09:07:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21013268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenwolf2007/pseuds/ravenwolf2007
Summary: A family betrayed...A leader, determined to re-make society in his image...A boy, lost and abused...And a young man, ready to upend society and restore a throne long lost...As these elements collide in the summer of '93, Magical Britain is shaken to its core as long buried secrets and lies are revealed; the struggle for long denied justice commences; bonds are forged and dissolved; a young hero discovers family; and in the shadows, a Dark Lord prepares to rise again...





	1. Prologue: Betrayal and Ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More than fifteen years after an unspeakable tragedy forces him to find shelter outside the environs of the British Isles, Ambrose Hollington, a young and powerful sorcerer with links to a number of prominent magical Houses returns to Britain, paying his respects to his fallen family and laying the groundwork for a political campaign that aims to completely upend the status quo of Magical Britain and Ireland, while bringing about justice against powerful figures who betrayed his family to their deaths...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> June 2020 UPDATE:
> 
> This chapter is currently undergoing revision. It will be updated as soon as the additional content and edits are complete. Parts of the chapter will not be congruent with other portions due to the ongoing editing and modifying process!

** _Adeptus Rising_ **

_Prologue: Betrayals and Ashes_

**o0o**

  
**June, 1991**

**Unplottable Location, Wales**

**Albion**

**Holly Vale Manor**

  
Ashes. Ashes underfoot. The taste of ashes laying heavy on his tongue. 

That was the first thing that Ambrose Hollington* observed as he patiently allowed his eyes to adjust to normal sight in the aftermath of his Apparition to the spot that he now stood upon.

Familiar agony flashed through his soul as he gazed at the blackened grounds, the burnt stumps of the once stunning orchards and the slagged masonry of what was once the seat of the Ancient and Noble House of Potter, his childhood home.

Struggling to prevent himself from being overcome by the ghost-like whispers of despair, fear, pain and grief that emanated from this once hallowed place, the tall youth clenched his trembling hands into fists. Bowing his head, wishing that he'd thought to ask his paramour and closest friend to accompany him, the inky locks of his hair obscured the sight of the haunting remains. His vision blurred as tears filled his stormy grey eyes and moisture dripped down his cheeks.

So many years gone, and still a part of him couldn't accept the sight of absolute devastation before him. A part of his innermost self still wanted to believe, however naively, that the events that had shifted the course of his life forever were only a nightmarish figment of his imagination. 

It had been fourteen years to the day when his quiet, but otherwise happy life had been destroyed in a maelstrom of destruction and death. Ambrose had just celebrated his seventh birthday with his mother Dorea Potter, formerly of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black and his fathers, Charlus Potter, the proxy of his infirm brother and familial patriarch Fleamont Potter in the halls of the Wizengamot, and Augustine de Deslizar-Hollington*, Lord of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Hollington. While his uncle Fleamont and Aunt Euphemia were otherwise engaged abroad seeking treatment for the sudden outbreak of dragonpox that had infected them both, and James and his other cousin Sirius were at Hogwarts, making more mischief, he and his small family were comfortably situated in Wales at the family home, making plans to travel to Papa Augustine's estate in the mountains of Portugal when without warning, an intense wave of heat, a roar of wind and the screams of the house-elves preceded the sudden explosion that rent apart the East Wing Parlor that they had been having morning tea in.

His fathers had instantly thrown all of their magic into making a shield to protect them all from the impact, but they were not fast enough to save his mother, who had placed a shield of her own around him. He could never forget the way her grey eyes had echoed with her love and determination an instant before the cursed flames consumed her body.

He had been sent plummeting down three stories as the Manor began to crumble under the unexpected assault. While he hadn't been critically injured due in no small part to the shield, he had been scared witless, overwhelmed by shock and lack of comprehension of what he had witnessed before his very eyes. Distantly, he could hear the sounds of curses and spells being cast, and the screams of anguish that would periodically echo into the cavern that had been carved from the lower floor of the Manor. He remembered crying in abject terror, wailing for his mum and for Father and Papa as more explosions erupted, flashes of green bursting in front of his eyes.

Two dark robed, and masked men had managed to blast their way through the rubble and had discovered his place of concealment. He thought that they would help him, but was completely unprepared for them to fling Avada Kedavra curses at him. He would have died, _should_ have died that day, but just as the magic from his mother's shield fizzled out and death flew at him with gleaming emerald jaws, Flixsy and Memy, his parents' personal house-elves appeared out of no where, Memy guarding him, allowing the two curses to slam into his back while Flixsy moved the rubble out of the way and instantly Apparated away with him.

The loyal elves must have been attempting to get him to the Hollington Manor which was completely Unplottable and its location only known to his parents (and perhaps Uncle Fleamont), but they were forced to Disapparate when they slammed into the Anti-Apparition field and plummeted to the ground.

Flixsy did her best to protect his body in the fall, but she was young and not trained to serve as a protector. While thankfully, he did not break any bones upon his landing, as he tumbled to a stop, his face and neck were sliced by sharpened pieces of broken stone, not that he had felt the tearing along his flesh as overwhelmed as he had been at that moment.

All he could remember was Flixsy screaming and snapping her fingers, a sensation akin to an egg cracking over him and running down his body, her strident tones as she raged against the attackers, and the sound of a wet gurgle as a small body dropped several feet away from him, and overwhelming terror that the evil people who were attacking them would hurt him next. Everything from that point faded to black.

The next thing he recalled was whimpering in pain as he stirred briefly to waking consciousness, trying in vain to push himself up from his prone position when he heard a sharp 'crack'. Freezing, he huddled behind the larger stones as _he_ appeared, an old man with a long and magnificent beard, crescent shaped glasses, sharp blue eyes and robed in turquoise colored robes.

He remembered the way the old man had looked for a brief moment sadder than anyone he had ever seen, before his eyes hardened and he spoke the words that forever damned him in the young Ambrose's eyes, unknowingly ensuring the resolve of an implacable enemy:

"So...", the aged wizard had whispered into the night sky. "it is done. If only poor Fleamont had given heed to my counsel, rather than aligning himself with the suspect policies of Charlus and Dorea...such a tragedy would not have been a necessity. Such wanton loss of life when the lives of our people are already so few and so precious...".

The wizard stretched out his wand then and had performed some kind of spell, though for the life of him Ambrose didn't know what it was, sliding the long and unusual looking wand back into the folds of his voluminous robes after a moment.

"No survivors," he had muttered next—words that had frozen Ambrose's heart— "I wish this didn't have to be done...but no matter, no matter. Fleamont and Euphemia will be devastated, a terrible position to be in emotionally when attempting to treat a virulent strain of the dragonpox. This loss will propel their own declension, and lead to their deaths. That will leave young James alone and confused, bereft of his loved ones and far more malleable than before. Unmoored, he will seek wisdom and proper guidance and in so doing, avoid his father and uncle's unfortunate mistakes. And in time...matters will fall in accordance to my design. I wish this didn't have to be so, but so it must be...for the Greater Good."

He might have muttered more to himself, but Ambrose couldn't recall, as the shock, pain and anger from the unexpected events drove him back into the realm of shadows and silence. The next memory he was cognizant of was awakening in Portugal, the face of his Papa's consigliere and family friend, Sir Thaddeus Cossel-Tellinore* staring down upon him, grief etched into his normally cheerful and ruddy face.

Sucking in a strangled gasp of breath, Ambrose shook off the haunting memories and straightened himself to his full height. He wasn't a scared little boy anymore. He was stronger than this! He had prepared for the emotional shock...

Forcing his hands to unclench themselves, he forced his feet to move through the ruins, occasionally levitating rocks and boulders out of his way as he stepped towards the approximate spot where he lost his mother to hatred and to the perfidious schemes of the uncouth fool who all but claimed control over these lands. His hands trembled as he drew closer and closer to the site of his greatest loss. The oppressive nature of the massacre pressed in on him at all angles, beating against his shielded mind. It took a great deal of effort to push through the psionic detritus and move ever closer, but at last, he found himself drawing level with the crumbled walls of the Manor.

Taking a deep breath, the young sorcerer solemnly approached the spot where his life was spared at the cost of his mother's. Falling to his knees, ignoring the ash staining his leathers, Ambrose bowed his head and wept. He wept for the years of bereavement that had only been compounded four years later with the deaths of his cousin James and his young wife. He wept for what seemed like hours.

All things must end however, and after an undetermined length of time, Ambrose's sobs faded into the grey morning dawn, as he leaned back on his haunches and studied the spot where he watched his mother's last moments.

"I hated myself for living," he began haltingly. "Living in a world where I would no longer see you and Papa and Father together. For a long time, I wished to die so I could be re-united with you all. I was never able to commit to the deed however," he added with a burst of bitterness and self-loathing, "as much as I wanted to be re-united with you, I was too afraid to leave the shell of this world."

Placing his hand on the spot where Dorea Potter nee Black had succumbed to the cursed fire, he concentrated his focus, willing tendrils of pure magic to burrow deep past the cracked stone into the earth beneath it, delving further and further until he touched something, something that filled his mind with such a sharp echo of his mother's gentle beauty that he gasped aloud. Tears sprang once more in his eyes, but this time Ambrose did not give in to his grief. Instead, he narrowed his dark eyes and drew on that reminder of happier days, coaxing the concealed gift to rise steadily through the earth, carefully nudging away the stone and burnt metal that obscured its presence, until at last, a single flower pushed through the earth and rose, stretching out towards the sky.

A muffled laugh, burst from his throat as the violet and fuchscia bud slowly began to open, drinking in the invisible nourishment from the sky. He smiled, despite the tears as such violets were always the flowers that his mother Dorea liked best.

"How fitting Madame," he murmured into the brightening sky, "that the flower you loved best should commemorate your beauty and power for years to come." With whispered spells, he secured the space around the flower and shielded it against any shifting stone, or encroaching weeds, feeding his essence into the flower that it would continue to bloom and prosper, even without the necessary tending that such flowers required in order to flourish.

Rising to his feet, young man bowed his head reverently towards the flower.

"By land, by sky, and by sea," he whispered quietly, "by flesh, and blood and bone, I swear to you Dorea of the House of Black, Charlus of the House of Potter and Augustine of the House of Hollington and el Casa de Deslizarse that I will see your murders avenged, your slayers destroyed, and your betrayer brought to ruin. By the blood of my blood who were betrayed by those who owed them reverence and all due honor, I will see your hopes and your Houses restored. In name of the Ancient Ones, so be it."

A sudden sense of vertigo swept through him and he stumbled back as for the briefest of moments...a Presence seemed to loom over him as if to acknowledge his oath before retreating, leaving behind only a tingling sensation all throughout his body that quickly faded into nothing.

He stood there, staring at the vibrant flower, the only splash of light in the oppressive gloom of the surrounding ruins as he contemplated the vows he had made when a pair of sharp 'cracks' caused him to whirl around, his wand dropping immediately from his concealed holster into his hand as he observed the displacement of air that provided a visual announcement of an Apparition. His wand was already raised when he recognized the forms and appearances of his visitor and sighed irritably to himself, lowering his wand to his side. For their parts, the unannounced visitors kept their hands visible as they walked towards Ambrose. He shook his head as the younger of the two individuals gave a cheeky salute as they approached. A fond smile tugged at his face, despite his somber mood as he took in their appearances. 

Lines of stress and grief filled with a similar pain now marred the visage of the elder visitor's face, but his hair was still a firm mixture of ebony and steel, brown eyes normally laughing, but now darkened with his own memories of grief and a shared loss. Clad in the exorbitant ceremonial robes of the chief delegates of the International Confederation of Wizards, Mugwump Thaddeus Cossel-Tellinore, cut a striking figure as he strode to Ambrose's side. Silently, the older man mutely bowed his head at the space in the ground where Ambrose had raised the testament to his mother's bravery and self-sacrificing soul. He remained that way for a number of minutes, before raising his head, fingers flashing in an arcane sigil of blessing, sealed as he lowered himself to the ground and touched his fingers upon the spot where his mother had lost her life.

The younger of the two slipped to Ambrose's side and, without Ambrose even needing to articulate his desire, wrapped his arms around him in a tight embrace. Ambrose could feel tears prickling at the corners of his eyes again, but he simply closed them as he buried his nose into the neck of the young man. Taking in a deep breath, he inhaled the familiar scent of cloves and cinnamon that wafted from the pores of the other man's skin. Pressing a kiss onto that caramel toned column of flesh, he luxuriated for a brief moment in the familiar, but always treasured sense of 'home'. Drawing back a bit, he stared into those expressive chocolate colored eyes that typically flashed with mischief or burned with passion as they'd make love, but now glimmered with sympathy and shared grief--for though he had not known Dorea Potter nee Black in life, he too was a part of her family. The other man, Caelum raised his long and dexterous fingers and brushed across his face.

"I didn't want to distract you from paying your respects," he murmured huskily, "but his Excellency reckoned that you could do with a bit of company."

Ambrose huffed as he threw a quick glance to their older companion, who was completing his courtesies to his parents, before focusing his gaze back upon Caelum.

"I'm glad you came." he said. "I thought I could do this alone...but I need you here with me. Both of you. You're my family too."

As always warmth filled Ambrose, chasing away for even a few short moments the weight of melancholy and pain that had fallen upon him, as he watched those perfect lips curve into a smile. Extending his hand, he grasped Caelum's and squeezed lightly as they focused their attention on their companion and mentor.

Pushing himself back to his feet, the older wizard turned to Ambrose, grief glittering in his eyes...along with a familiar rage, a rage that was echoed in equal measure by Ambrose. The pain in his eyes however, were mingled with a glimmer of triumph, causing a swell of excitement to spring in the younger wizard's heart.

"It is done," said the ICW-delegate abruptly, in lieu of a greeting. "The Council has voted on the measures that our Educational Secretariat have been pushing for the last two years. The old bastard tried his best of course to twist the legislation to keep as many loopholes as possible to his benefit, but the Council did not yield, thankfully. As of three hours ago, the International Educational Evaluation and Reform Act is now the law of all member-nations."

Ambrose stared at his guardian and mentor uncomprehendingly for a few seconds, before a vicious smile began to form on his face.

"So it begins at last," he murmured.

"It does indeed young one," replied Mugwump Tellinore, an equally vicious smile lighting up his face. "It took three years, and two appeals, but it is now law, no matter what our illustrious and ever-wise Supreme Mugwump would like to see happen. It is a great victory for those among our body who seek to ensure that graduates of ICW-representative schools do so in accordance to a standard that will enable all to pursue higher educational or vocational studies anywhere in the world that they wish without having to submit to extensive remedial examinations depending on which country they seek to advance their potential careers in. And a blow to those among us who seek to abandon the practices and teachings that are unique to each member-state and form an integral part of their history and national identity. With this Act in place, the upcoming generation of students will be able to trust that regardless of where they enroll, they will not be fed pernicious theories that will undermine our most sacred and fundamental laws and traditions. It will ensure that the Statute remains secure, and yet the younglings far more cognizant of the advances of the mundane population, its history and the challenges of co-existence with them."

"Furthermore," he emphasized, resting a firm hand upon the taller youth's broad shoulders, "it is an opportunity. It will enable us to lay the foundations for our most important task, a task that will ensure that your fallen House is restored to its former glory, and those who utterly betrayed their oaths of fealty brought to justice. And why?"

Ambrose considered the question briefly, his mind readily supplying the answer.

"If the youth are educated to learn of the past, of what used to be the shape of our people...they will prove more amenable to support a restoration to that former state, especially as they learn the many ways that the leaders they have so lately placed their trust in have betrayed them all...".

"Exactly," hissed Mugwump Tellinore. "The truth of Angevin's Fall will be revealed and the chance for Angevin's rise will manifest itself. Britain, Ireland and the Continent...they are weary of war and tumult. Many still suffer under the trauma of Grindelwald's crusade, suffering still more under the terror created by that wretched pretender to the legacy of the Noble heirs of the House of Slytherin. The arts magical have suffered as fear and paranoia have led to excessive and ill-defined restrictions and bans. That must be corrected. The rapidly fraying relations between the magi and the Children of Leaf and Star must be arrested, for we cannot prosper if our brethren of other Races have all turned against us. The ancient Rites must once again be observed in their purity, not meshed with the corrupted ravings of blood purism, which only plays into the false narratives forced down the throats of the general public by those who arrogantly and foolishly label themselves as the paragons of Light...as if that equates to the concept of morality, of 'Good'! This will open the doors for our purposes to advance; slowly of course, steadily, incrementally, but inexorably. If we move with caution and yet dispatch, much can be accomplished...as your good parents dreamed."

He sighed as Ambrose stiffened, withdrawing his clasp on his shoulders as he stepped around to face the tall and youthful wizard. His eyes softened with pity and with his own grief as he raised his hand to the man's pale face.

"You have excelled at every lesson, every trial, every test that I have put you through," murmured the Mugwump. "You have pushed your magic, your body and your mind further than I had ever dreamed possible. Know this, that no matter what the final results of our opening gambit might be, you have already honored the memory of your noble parents and your ancestors. You have accomplished much, and will accomplish more. It has been my solemn privilege and joy to step in the place of your parents to raise and educate you. I'm proud of you, Ambrose. Menelaus, Charlus and Dorea are proud of you. Never forget that, understand?"

The face he caressed, trembled, but Ambrose nodded jerkily. Pleased, the elder wizard lowered his hands and using a fraction of his magic, conjured a roll of parchment, sealed with the sigil marking official documentation of the International Confederation. Taking a deep breath, Mugwump Tellinore extended the roll to Ambrose, who took it, an unspoken question alight in his stormy eyes.

"You may read the scroll of course," Tellinore said brusquely, "but know that on behalf of the Educational Secretariat of the International Confederation of Wizards, I, Thaddeus Cossel-Tellinore, a member of the Council of Mugwumps do confer upon you, Ambrose Julianus Melenaus, Heir Apparent to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Hollington, Marqués del Valle de la Serpiente and El Jefe de la Casa de Deslizarse, Heir Presumptive of the Ancient and Noble House of Potter, Heir Claimant of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Peverell, Son of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, the mantle of Chief Representative Envoy of the Office of the Educational Secretariat of the International Confederation to the Ministry of Magic for Britain and Ireland and all Schools and Educational Facilities held within its dominion. You are herewith authorized to represent the International Confederation in all matters concerning the ratification of, enforcement of and implementation of the International Educational Evaluation and Reform Act. As part of your remit, you will oversee a delegation of envoys who will ensure that all educational facilities within the domain of Britain and Ireland are cognizant of and in compliance with the IEERA. Should any educational facility fail to act in accordance with the Act, or if the Ministry should fail to properly ensure its ratification and immediate implementation, you are herewith designated by the Mugwump Council the highest authority on these matters, with power to lay fines on any facility that fails to comply with this Act, and should persistent violations continue, power to levy a citation of contempt upon this member state with the attendant penalties therewith. Your authorization will not be superseded by the authority of the Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation owing to the Council's ruling that the Supreme Mugwump is hereby recused from all matters related to the implementation of the Act, due to a two-fold conflict of interest in these matters. Will you accept this task and carry out the duties wherewith you have been entrusted faithfully and in full compliance with the appropriate Statutes ratified by the International Confederation?"

Ambrose's hands shook as he grasped the scroll, but his eyes hardened with determination as the magic ratifying his appointment swirled overhead.

"I will."

Both gentlemen sucked in their breaths as a faint shimmer of golden light flared briefly into visible existence before sinking into the scroll that both grasped and flowing into both men for a long moment before fading away. Ambrose's chest rose and fell as he adjust to the weight of the magic that would be immediately identifiable if any one within the British Ministry or its Wizengamot attempted to dispute his right to administer the process of ratification and ensure its implementation.

Mugwump Tellinore smiled at his younger companion.

"And now, my young friend...the rest is up to you. You have been well taught, and I expect that you will prove more than ready to face the challenges that stand in the way of your ultimate mission."

Grey eyes shot towards his brown eyes and held his stare for a long moment.

"And now," continued the older man, gently. "It is time to let this land rest and renew."

Nodding tersely, Ambrose turned once more and inclined his head in a graceful acknowledgement of the violet blossom in front of him, before straightening himself once more and stepping out of the rubble back towards the blackened fields. When he found a large enough clear space, he closed his eyes and began to settle his mind through the art of the sacred breath. Releasing the sorrow, the memories of loss and the rage that had consumed him for years, the young sorcerer drew in his breath for five counts, held it in for the same and released his breath in five counts. Again and again, he breathed in accordance to the lessons he had received from the _Rinpoche_ who administered the mystic monastery that he had studied in over the past four years after graduating from the Magical Academy of Ibiza, all the while willing his reservoir of magic to act as a magnet to draw the energies he desired towards him. As the minutes passed, he gradually felt the pull on his magic and rather than allow his energies to disperse, willed them to draw on the maiasmic tendrils of death and foulness that had penetrated the once cheerful grounds for over a decade. Raising his hands, he willed the oppressive weight of the foul magic to manifest.

Standing several feet away, in respectful silence, Mugwump Tellinore gasped as the very air around them began to darken, inky spools of magic rising from the ground, the ruined stones and slagged metal of the Manor, materializing from the air itself as Ambrose focused his will upon the land of his father's family. Silently, the older politician watched as the magic gathered slowly but surely into a howling, swirling maelstrom that shrieked and raged in front of the young wizard whose will was forcing the long latent traces of the magic wielded against the rightful owners to coalesce together in a more or less tangible shape.

Ambrose's mouth moved silently, but Tellinore could not discern what words were being spoken as he enforced his will upon the magic that had long poisoned his land. He could however see the form that his magic took as it prepared to dispel the unwanted energies and his eyes widened as a glittering, spiral chain of golden fire began to form down his long arms, ancient symbols and runic formations resolving into view.

For several minutes he watched the maelstrom grow deeper and more tangible until he could feel the force of its rotation as a fierce wind that attempted to blow him away, and the echo of haunted screams of pain that caused tears to prickle at the corners of his eyes as his imagination ran wild with what those desolate echoes could be.

Finally, when it seemed that the storm would grow beyond both of their powers, Ambrose threw up both of his hands, the sound of his imperious, tenor voice a discordant pulse against the shrieking of the remnant energies of the foul magic. Before the older man's eyes, the sigils and runes de-materialized from Ambrose's arms and manifested as a wave of golden light that simultaneously swept throughout the breadth of the Manor grounds while also fountaining up in a spiral cage, capturing the shadowy energies and forcibly compressing it, battling each attempt of the black magic to run wild and forcing it to expend its remaining vitality as Ambrose gritted his teeth and forced his hands closer and closer together, until with a resounding clap of thunder, the remnants of the magic poisoning the Holly Vale winked out of existence, along with the cage that Ambrose had conjured.

  
As Ambrose lowered his hands, panting harshly from the exertion of manipulating such powerful energies without a wand or external foci aside from the conjured runes, Tellinore felt his body relax, a subtle weight of oppression and horror melting away from the sky around them and even the land. If possible, the still-depressing and bleak scenery _felt_ less—heavy, aside from the emotional connection both magicians felt to those whose lives were ripped from them upon their own lands. His grief felt cleaner, less barbed and tainted.

Ambrose for his part, took in a deep breath and released it, along with a tendril of his magic which touched the land of his ancestors and raced out to trace the length and breadth of the large property. A light touch, meant only to scan for any residual magic that didn't belong on the property. It took less than a minute to complete his scan and as his sense resounded with the echoes of _clean, clean, clean!_, the weight of anxiety that had pressed in on him since he stepped foot on the land he had been taken from fifteen years prior, vanished.

A small smile formed across his face, one borne out of sheer relief.

It was done.

And now, the next task—of claiming what was rightfully his, of setting the wheels of justice in motion, not only for his immediate family's unjust murders and false justice, but for the centuries of disgrace and disrespect that had been paid to his ancestors descended from his Papa Menelaus' lineage, and the future prosperity of a nation on the brink of irreversible disaster—would begin.

They would strike the first blow, and forge a storm such as never had been witnessed in magical Britain since the days of the Pendragons themselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to all readers of my new story, In Via ad Virtutem: Adeptus Rising. This story is intended to be the launch of a series of fics chronicling the journeys of three young men, who bound to each other by blood, magic and love, take on the entrenched corruption of the leadership of Magical Britain and Ireland while laying the groundwork for the revival of a slumbering monarchy whose heirs have been in hiding for centuries due to the betrayal and efforts of those in power to eliminate all traces of their existence. 
> 
> Yes, its another Royalty AU, but I don't care! I love the concepts of this trope and the many ways that it can be woven into the Harry Potter mythos. There are so many interesting stories out there that incorporate this concept, but I wanted to try my own hand at it, albeit with (I hope) a story that doesn't fall into the 'Son of Merlin, Son of King Arthur' royalty stories that features our favorite HP characters. 
> 
> For this story, the focus will be on an original character that I made based off of a few subtle clues from HP canon, one Ambrose Hollington. The son of a triad relationship composed of another OC and Dorea Potter/Charlus Potter, this character flees Britain after his parents are killed in 1977 (a possible occurrence as there hasn't yet been an official story about why Dorea Potter died in 1977), only to return fourteen years later and work with allies abroad and domestic to shake up the status quo and get justice for the loss of the Potter clan...as well as revive the Monarchy in Magical Britain. 
> 
> In addition this story will also focus on Harry Potter, and Blaise Zabini who will both have interconnecting relationships with Ambrose as the story progresses. 
> 
> Voldemort will be a major baddie in this, because why not? He has such potential and so many reasons to go after not only Harry, but Ambrose, especially once he discovers his family heritage and what it means for his own claims to prominence...
> 
> The main villain or rather antagonist however, will be Albus Dumbledore (not unique, I know...) who is not evil per se, but certainly ruthless and of a political persuasion that is completely inimical to the concept of a revived magical Monarchy in the British Isles. We will see the way his plots and threads create obstacles that Ambrose, Harry and Blaise along with their allies will have to overcome in order to successfully restore the Monarchy. And he won't be working alone...
> 
> I'm really excited about what the potential of this story is and I hope that those of you who are as crazy over HP fics as I am will read this story and support it if it tickles your fancy. 
> 
> Buckle up, because it is definitely going to be a bumpy and wild ride...
> 
> * DeSlizarse- I'll be perfectly honest, the first time I saw this particular surname, I was reading an amazing series of fics by Flamethrower, Of a Linear Circle. It intrigued me, as I never considered different ways of describing 'Slytherin'. I thought about putting this in as a substitute for the word Slytherin (as a way of differentiating the lineage of Salazar Slytherin and my take on an older lineage that his family is merely a branch of with origins in Portugal or Spain as other stories have done) and lo and behold, Deslizarse is a word in Spanish that means "slither", "glide", etc. So I'm claiming it for my own, but give all due credit to Flamethrower and other authors who came to similar conclusions and used this in their stories!


	2. The Three Rings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before he can initiate the first steps of his plan to cut away the foundations of those whose corrupt practices and lust for power led to so many in his family dying ignoble deaths, Ambrose makes a visit to a certain bank to lay claim to the political leverage that he will need to set chaos in motion...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes dialogue from Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, written by J.K. Rowling.

** _Adeptus Rising_ **

_Chapter I: The Three Rings_

**o0o**

**Diagon Alley, Londonium***

**Albion**

**June 22, 1993**

  
Though he had been born in Wales, and raised a proud scion of Britain for the six years that he lived in the Isles before the tragedy that led to his fostering with Mugwump Cossel-Tellinore, Ambrose had never once set his foot upon the cobbled stone path of the famous Diagon Alley.

The main entryway to Magical London, Diagon Alley was the place that all young magicians-in-training gathered with their parents and assorted relations in order to buy their intitial suppplies as they prepared to launch their journey towards being qualified as a 'fully trained practitioner of the magical arts'.

Boasting an assorted variety of the most lucrative (and expensive) shops in London, it was tradition to gather supplies there, so much so in fact that if rumors leaking from Britain were to be believed, legislation had been passed to bar the First Generation of magicians to shop at any other place than the stores available at Diagon Alley in recent decades.

Troubling, if true Ambrose supposed, but just one of the many egregious overreaches that he would have to correct as he began enacting his goals in Britain.

As he emerged in a plume of emerald flames out of the public Floo Corridor, absently eliminating the accompanying soot with an absent wave of his wand, Ambrose looked about the cobbled street, a germ of eager anticipation vibrating within himself despite the solemnity of the tasks that he committed to complete as quickly and efficiently as possible.

The street was bustling with scores of witches and wizards, some accompanying their young children as they stopped at a store hawking a particular ware. Aged crones haggled over the prices of traditional ingredients that attained fame in both the mundane and magical worlds such of Eye of Newt (selling presently for four sickles and three knuts per ounce) while a few paces over, children squealed and chattered around what appeared to be a magical version of an ice-cream parlor, a steady stream of clientele swept in and out of the storefront of Quality Quidditch Supplies, a young and evidently recently wed couple walked hand in hand into the bookstore Flourish and Blotts, and so on and so forth.

Not nearly as elegant and sophisticated as the French Magical Quarter or as comprehensive as the Market, located in Madagascar, but Diagon Alley held a rustic, friendly, unique charm that Ambrose felt palpably. He had little doubt that as he acclimated to life in Britain that he would find great pleasure in shopping in this district, all the more for the little-known fact that Daigon Alley was a gateway to several Alleys that made up Londinium—its magical counterpart that is.

  
However at the moment, it was not for shopping or dining, but other business that Ambrose trod on the cobbled stone and passed crowds of shopping magicians as he aimed his path towards the landmark building that was one of its oldest, and easily most fortified buildings in the Alley.

  
While the present building, a behemoth display of marble wrought opulence that rose for several stories had been erected in the late 1400s, during one of the lulls of the disputes between magicians and goblins that were later termed the Goblin Rebellions, Gringotts itself has operated in the bowels of Western Europe for several centuries before that, the Hoard ruled by the Ragnok clan of Goblins having tunneled far below the known caves and ancient tunnels in a relentless quest for gold and precious stones among other materials.

A massive international cartel, rivaled only by the far less visible but equally powerful clan of Dwarves descended from the Dwarf Lord Emir whose interests centered in Eastern Europe, significant swathes of the African continent and much of the Mediterranean, Gringotts had for centuries secured its place as the almost exclusive banker for the monetary affairs of magicians throughout Western Europe and in the British Isles in particular.

Ambrose's brows rose up as he stood quietly a few feet away from the entrance to the infamous bank which incidentally was the tallest (and deepest delved) building in Londinium. Even from where he was standing, he could sense the undulating coils of powerful magic, permeating the very external facade of the banking establishment.

Interesting. He had not known that it rested on a convergence of leylines similar to other significant buildings such as the Ministry of Magic, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry or even buildings not strictly within the network of magician-owned (or goblin owned) real estate in the mundane United Kingdom such as the infamous Tower of London. But it made sense, and explained a great deal of why goblins would guard their access to this particular spot of Londinium so fiercely.

As he studied the stream of witches and wizards coming in and out of the bank, Ambrose considered the enormity of what he was about to set in motion by entering those ancient halls.

It wouldn't be too much of a stretch to consider stepping inside the bank as an act of war—particularly considering the goals that he as well as his associates had for Magical Britain. Certainly, specific factions of the current government and other systems of power would consider it in that vein.

It was odd. He had been preparing and training for this moment nearly all of his life, since the day the happy world he knew had erupted around him in an explosion of flames, death and despair. And yet, a small part of him hesitated on taking his rightful place within the hierarchy of power.

A silly quirk, of course. Still, for a moment as Ambrose cast his gaze once more on the happy and oblivious crowd of folks going about their business with no fear or intimation of the political upheavals that were soon to roil the British Isles and extend far beyond its shores, a part of him longed for the anonymity and simplicity of a commoner's life. No expectations, no political maneuvering. Just living a life, doing what one loved and providing for a family.

Unfortunately, that wasn't to be his fate.

Shaking off the distracting and useless thoughts, Ambrose closed his eyes and wandlessly altered the strands of the Notice-Me-Not charms that had been woven into the fabric of his garments. The enchantments would still aid in diverting the attention of the late morning crowd, but with the adjustments the individuals whose attention and cooperation he would require—namely the goblins—he would be fully visible.

With a sigh, Ambrose cast a critical eye over his appearance. Attired in all black, his trousers and boots made of dragon skin and tunic composed of a tri-weave of acromantula silk, cotton and velvet, segmented with a belt around the waist and dragon-skin gloves and a heavy cloak completing the ensemble, Ambrose was dressed to impose.

Goblins were notorious for their animosity towards humans, albeit well-deserved considering the ways that magicians had maligned and attempted to restrict their rights unto the present day. They weren't affected by the wealth or the bloodlines of any human with very few exceptions. This animosity was compounded by the fact that they were at heart warriors, their young cutting their teeth in the martial training and skirmishes that still occurred on occasion between the Hoard and the Clan of Emir. While a polite demeanor was always helpful, they respected only one thing.

Power.

Luckily, power was something he had in spades.

Releasing the breath he had been holding, the young man squared his shoulders and stalked towards the entrance of the bank.

As he approached the bronze doors that concealed the heart of the British magical economy, he lazily eyed the crimson clad guards on either side of the doors who stiffened, clawed hands gripping their halberds tighter than before as he let some of his magic loose from their bindings.

Sparing the guards a curt nod of acknowledgement, Ambrose dismissed them from his thoughts and strode through the outer doors, moving along with the scattered groups of fellow customers who unconsciously edged away from him thanks to the Notice-Me-Not and aversion charms that were on his person.

Approaching the second set of doors, these constructed out of silver, he viewed with interest the elegantly carved English rendition of the goblin curse that settled upon his shoulders even as he read the words:

  
_Enter, stranger, but take heed_  
_Of what awaits the sin of greed_  
_For those who take, but do not earn,_  
_Must pay most dearly in their turn._  
_So if you seek beneath our floors_  
_A treasure that was never yours,_  
_Thief, you have been warned, beware_  
_Of finding more than treasure there._

  
Ambrose smirked in appreciation. Their ruthlessness against those who would attempt to steal from them was a critical part of what made the goblins one of the best financiers in the world.

Stepping through the doors as they swung inward, Ambrose took in the sight of the massive hall that served as the floor where most of their business with the public took place. dozens of long counters stretched across the length of the hall, with goblins seated behind them and numerous queues formed before them. There was probably more than a hundred goblins seated throughout the counters, conducting their business with the brisk and brusque manner for which they were known.

Rather than join one of the long queues, Ambrose strode towards the central counter, as he had been advised to by his former guardian. This teller had no queue in front of him, but was busily jotting into a thickset ledger while narrowly eyeing sheaves of parchment containing information that from the looks of it, was engendering little joy in the goblin.

Loosing more of his ambient magic, Ambrose halted before the teller. Naturally, the teller didn't even bother to look up, but Ambrose said nothing, merely releasing more of his magic as he waited for the teller's attention to be placed upon him.

Around him he could hear quiet gasps and an outbreak of muttering as various witches and wizards, who apparently seemed to be more sensitive to the flow of magic sensed the thickening aura of magic that was beginning to percolate near the central counter. Some of the goblins paused in their transactions and sniffed at the air, their dark eyes widening as they cast wary glances at him.

As the light provided by the enchanted chandelier far above began to dim, the teller snapped his eyes up, cognizant at last of the presence before him, only to freeze as Ambrose smirked before him.

"Master Teller," he said, "a moment of your time, if you please."

The swarthy creature scowled fiercely, but was quick to set down his quill as he glared at the human in front of him.

"Your business?" he snapped.

Rather than respond verbally, Ambrose conjured into his hand a sealed envelope, embossed with the seal of the Mugwump Council and extended the letter to the goblin. With an irritated growl the teller snatched the letter out of Ambrose's hand and tracing a claw over the seal, broke it open. As the spell embedded in the letter caused the letter to unfold itself, the teller began to read the contents of the letter as Ambrose observed closely.

He fancied that he could detect the moment that the goblin read the most salient portion of the short letter, describing his pedigree and the representatives that were requested to meet with him. The goblin's eyes widened in shock and the teller snapped incredulous eyes on Ambrose before returning to the letter and scanning it more thoroughly. After concluding the letter, the teller took another long look at Ambrose, who elected to remain still, unsmiling while all the while his magical aura thickened as more was slowly let loose.

"Begging your pardon, noble wizard," rasped the goblin at last, as he fingered a circular protrusion that was covered in runes, barking into it in Gobbledegook when the runes lit up briefly, before returning his gaze to Ambrose. "The appropriate parties have been alerted, an escort should arrive momentarily to guide you to the Conference hall."

Pleased, Ambrose leashed his leaking ambient magic, a visible ripple of relief coming from the gathered customers who had sensitive senses as well as from the goblin tellers who, while continuing right along in their various transactions, had cast their eyes upon the singular wizard standing before the central counter. The teller before him leaned back cautiously as well, a considering light burning within his eyes.

"My thanks, noble teller," replied Ambrose, with a shallow bow. "You are a credit to this institution."

In minutes, Ambrose found himself situated in a large and spacious conference room, spartan in the manner that goblins tended to keep their dwellings, but done up in shades of cream and burnished bronze, a large conference table made out of cherry wood separating him from the goblin managers and the senior executive of the Londinium branch that sat behind the table, all four clad in the most expensive formal robes and suits afforded from the premier clothier in England, one Twilfitt and Tattings.

The introduction letter from his closest ally, Mugwump Cossel-Tellinore lay open before the senior executive, who studied its contents silently while the three managers gazed shrewdly at Ambrose, who for his part sat in the straight-backed chair patiently.

He knew that any potential difficulties in establishing his claims would be coming from the unnamed executive, not the bank managers Thuruk, Manager of the assets of the House of Hollington; Nogrod, Manager of the assets of the British branch of the DeSalizarse Clan, the House of Slytherin, and Birchgrip, Manager of the assets of House Potter...including the assets of the House Peverell, the House of Potter being the closest lineage eligible to access and utilize its contents and associated properties.

Said executive grunted a phrase in the goblin tongue that had all three of the Managers cast startled glances at each other. He then turned a gimlet eye upon Ambrose, who stared steadily into the goblin's face. After a minute, the executive laughed harshly.

"Well met," he said at last. "Well met indeed. I was wondering when you would return to these shores. Mugwump Cossel-Tellinore hasn't told me the half, by the looks of it."

Abruptly, he waved a negligent hand towards each of the managers.

"No doubt your guardian has already informed you of their identities," barked the goblin. "I am the chieftain of the Londinium branch of Gringotts, descendant of the ninth generation from his Excellency Ragnuk the Fourth of the name, King of the Goblin Hoard. Angruk is my name."

Ambrose cocked his left eyebrow, the only visible sign of his surprise. He then inclined his head graciously in turn.

"I am honored by your presence and consideration in these matters," he said smoothly. "I trust that all is in order?"

"In order?" barked Angruk. "Not as much as you would like, I'm afraid. The contents of this letter have been confirmed, it is a genuine endorsement from the Mugwump indeed. Nevertheless, you do not bear the appropriate rings. While your pedigree makes this more of a...formality than anything else, you will be required to submit to the appropriate...test."

Ambrose narrowed his eyes as he considered the implacable features of the goblin before him.

"And what is required to satisfy the formalities?"

Angruk began to slowly smile, his sharp teeth gleaming in the light of the goblin fire burning in the steel sconces set along the walls.

"The only thing that is of value when determining lineage. Blood."

The answering smile Ambrose bestowed upon the heir to the goblin hoard had the three managers stir uneasily, for it was the smile of one supremely confident on what the outcome would be. It was rather akin to what Angruk's smile contained: confidence and deadly intent.

For his part, Angruk only appeared more amused.

"Excellent," he drawled. "Then let us proceed."

With a snap of his fingers, the elder goblin conjured three bowls identical in appearance. Each bowl was crafted out of meteoric iron, and engraved with goblin runes. One bowl each rested up on the conference before each of the three managers. Another snap caused a heavy ritual dagger, composed of the same material as the bowls. It too had several goblin runes engraved across its surface, however whereas the bowls were simple, but beautiful exhibits of goblin-craft, the dagger was a crudely crafted blade, blackened and exuding potency, and a thirst for blood.

"Each bowl," explained Angruk, "represents each of the three Houses that you have elected to claim. Three drops of your blood will be required for each bowl. The magics invoked will determine if your ancestry merits access to the ruling ring for each House. As this is more confirmation than a test, rest at ease. There should be little reason to fear that you would be rejected by the magics guarding the Houses. If however, there is any doubt in your mind concerning your right to lay claim to these Houses, it would be better for you to request an inheritance test. If you should be found to be falsely laying claim to that which is not yours, I'm afraid the price the magic will enact will be most...severe. Any reservations?"

Ambrose slowly extended his right hand.

"Proceed."

The pull of the jagged blade against his palm pulled a wince from Ambrose, but he resisted the urge to react in any way. Goblins were warriors by nature and had little use or respect for beings who couldn't take a little bit of pain. Taking a deep breath, he watched as the crimson pearls of his lifeblood began to well up along the line of torn skin. Clenching his fist, he encouraged more blood to rise to the surface. Once a sufficient amount was gathered he glanced at Angruk, who imperiously gestured towards the three bowls.

Right. The bowls.

Clenching his fist once again, Ambrose held his hand over the first bowl, carefully watching as three drops of blood dripped down into the bowl. As the third drop fell into the bowl, the runes lit up a fiery orange. Quickly, Ambrose moved his hand to the second bowl, and then to the third bowl, squeezing three drops of blood in each. As the runes began to light up in the other two bowls, Angruk and the three managers began to chant in Gobbledegook. Withdrawing his hand, Ambrose pulled on the tendrils of his magic to knit the torn flesh.

Looking up, he watched intently as each of the bowls began to levitate into the air as the magic summoned reverberated throughout the conference room at a fevered pitch. The bowls hung in the air for nearly a minute before each vessel began to dissolve into shadowed mist as they lowered back unto the surface of the table. A few seconds more saw the waves of the powerful goblin magic abruptly wink out, the mists resolving into far more compact shapes.

Ambrose couldn't withhold the sigh of relief that emanated from within as the mists swirled together, solidifying and forming three distinct rings.

It had worked. It was one thing to be raised with the knowledge that you were a scion of a multitude of Houses, any single one of them significant and affluent on their own without taking the other Houses into account.

It was another thing entirely to see the visible proof in front of your eyes and know that you were officially the only member of the Houses judged worthy of bearing the mantle of leadership.

He wasn't sure how to feel about it, actually.

To have hold of such power was a boon, especially considering the massive changes that he planned on introducing into the nation in the coming weeks along with his allies within the ICW, but it also spoke to the challenge that he now faced to ensure that these Houses prospered in the coming years.

For he would not be able to hold on to the reins of all three Houses indefinitely.

With a shake of his head, Ambrose turned his eyes on the rings that now rested before the managers of each individual House, as Angruk eyed him with an indescribable gleam in his dark eyes.

"As you can clearly see," said the aged goblin executive brusquely, "your claims have been proven true. The resources, properties and responsibility of maximizing the potential of each Noble and Most Ancient House now belongs to you. That being said, the responsibilities and mantles of each House vary. These variances are signified by the Rings that have manifested here in accordance with your design."

Angruk pointed at the first ring which levitated and floated to Ambrose's waiting palm. As it settled in his hand, Ambrose picked up the ring and examined it carefully. It was a heavy silver ring, embellished on the band by a serpent circling across the band, presumably in the manner of the ouroboros. The stone was an emerald bearing the stamp of what must be the emblem of the British branch of the House of Slytherin, a ouroboros in a figure eight, a stylized S within a shield above the ancient symbol. Ambrose studied the emblem with interest, intrigued by the differences that the cadet branch of his father's House contained in their heraldry and the similarities.

"What will happen when I assume the mantle?", he inquired lightly. "Will the rings merge as one?"

Angruk shook his head.

"Unlikely", he grunted. "The two branches of the family have been sundered for so many years as to become completely distinct entities. While you are binding the two branches back together, the rings will remain distinct until a new heraldry is selected to represent the unified House."

Ambrose sighed. It figured that it wouldn't be as simple as he would have liked.

"That will have to be a matter that will be settled at a later date," he decided at last, before turning his attention to the second ring. As a motion from Angruk brought the ring into his hand, he examined it curiously.

This ring was an oval cut, bronze ring with a labradorite stone set in. In gold filigree was etched the symbol of the House of Hollington; an arrow clutched in the claws of a thunderbird, with two flowering branches on either side, and a stylized 'H' set above the magical avian as a crown.

"The Hollington ring," said Angruk. "Borne by the eldest sons of the previous Lord for centuries, back to a time when the Noble and Most Ancient House was titled. You bear the very ring that once adorned the hand of your father, and his father before him. May your tenure as Lord be as fruitful and profitable as his."

Ambrose swallowed heavily, moved by the words spoken by the heir to the Goblin Hoard. Reverently, he set down the ring and turned his attention to the last, and in the scope of his immediate goals, the most important ring that he would bear.

As that ring settled into his palm, he examined it closely. It was a square-cut ring with a heavy gold band. On one side of the band was etched the likeness of a thestral. On the other was etched the likeness of a griffin. Embedded was a ruby, but unlike the rings for the House of Slytherin and the House of Hollington, the surface of the ruby was untouched by any design save a stylized 'P'. Curiously he glanced at Angruk, who in turn directed his gaze to Manager Birchgrip.

"The ring that is set before you," said Manager Birchgrip, "is the ring set aside for those of the blood who act in the role of Regent for the next Lord of the House of Potter. While you are the eldest heir of the present generation, the line of succession does not run through you. It runs through—"

"Harry Potter," whispered Ambrose. Yes, the most famous member of their near-decimated family, feted throughout the Isles as 'the Boy-Who-Lived'. James' boy. 

"Yes," confirmed the goblin. "As the only son of James Potter, the last acknowledged Head of House Potter, Mr. Harry Potter is as of this moment in time, the Heir Apparent. On the other hand, while you are the elder heir, and thus automatically eligible to serve as the Regent until such time that Harry Potter comes of age, you are the Heir Presumptive. The line of succession will only pass to you if Heir Potter should perish."

Ambrose's eyes darkened. He ruthlessly stamped the urge to lash out against the goblin, for he spoke only the truth. He meant nothing insidious by it.

In any case, he would see to it that his cousin's heir was protected at all cost. To do anything less was unacceptable.

Setting the Regent's ring down, he stared the rings set on the table, before setting his gaze upon the Managers of the respective Houses.

"Will the Ministry be notified when I place these rings on my fingers?" he asked quietly.

Angruk grimaced.

"We can give you a grace period of twenty-eight days," he replied. "During that time, you will need to set your affairs in order. After that period, we are required by present law to notify the Ministry of the assumption of these titles, so the appropriate measures can be taken as regards the Wizengamot seats connected to each of them."

Ambrose hummed thoughtfully. He had honestly expected to be receiving several owls from various departments of the Ministry within a day of assuming the mantles that he had come to claim. But a lunar month of quiet was an unexpected boon. That would give him until the Lughnasadh moot of the Wizengamot to lay his snares for those he was planning on undercutting. Plus, it would give him time to ensure that the appropriate response was given to the public on his timing...

He smirked.

He couldn't wait to see the look on the face of a particular wizard when he discovered who held the reigns of authority over the Potter assets...

Summoning the three rings, he set the Potter regency ring on his left hand, inhaling sharply as the warmth of the ring sweeping through his body signified that he had been accepted as Regent. The other two rings of Lordship, however, he set on his right hand, on the third and fourth fingers. Whereas the Hollington ring carried with it the smell of a brewing storm and the faint echo of a Thunderbird's cry, the Slytherin ring packed more of a metaphysical punch, both the Lordship ring of Salazar's branch and the ring he already bore of the main branch of the family flared with emerald light. An electric jolt flashed through him and he grit his teeth to avoid making an uncultured gasp of ecstasy, as he heard the sinuous whispers of the serpent tongue resonate through his mind.

Breathing slightly heavier, Ambrose lifted his right hand as the glowing rings faded, though the occasional jolt would run through his hand.

It was done. He had successfully claimed the political leverage that he would ruthlessly apply in the coming days to enforce the changes that he and his allies intended to see manifest within the Isles. With the official sanction of the ICW as well as the inherent power that he would now be able to wield as the Head of two affluent and wealthy families as well as the Regent of a third...

His enemies wouldn't know what hit them.

Across from him, Angruk also had a toothy smile on his face. The letter from Mugwump Cossel-Tellinore had been quite enlightening concerning the steps that the young sorcerer in front of him would be taking in the coming months. Oh the chaos that would descend upon the hidebound, feckless ingrates who claimed to lord over the Hoard! The future would prove to be most entertaining and profitable. And should the young Lord ever choose to lay claim to the most ancient and dangerous House of all...

The Hoard might at last gain some of their most coveted objectives, goals that had remained unfulfilled since the days of his grandsire.

"I must wonder," he said quietly, with a pointed look at the human before him, "why you have elected not to claim the full measure of that which your blood entitles you to? Surely you are aware of the Houses that you descend from in equal measure? And if I am not mistaken, then there is yet another that would prove to be your greatest weapon of all...".

He was rather impressed to see how the human refrained from expressing any surprise, rather keeping his face impassive as he stared directly into his eyes. Around him, his subordinates seemed to tense, though they were not aware of what he was insinuating.

The silence in the room grew so thick that Angruk himself was beginning to think that perhaps he had erred in his questioning. He prepared to wave the question off when he froze at the sight before him.

The young one was smiling and it was as bloodthirsty a grin as that of any goblin warrior. Angruk found himself quite impressed.

"My Lord Angruk," replied the young human Lord. "Of the two Houses that you refer to, I find that it lies to my future young charge to fulfill if he should be willing the steps that his forefathers failed to take because they did not wish their name and legacy to be subsumed to the greater legacy of the family they were joining in union with. The second House has a suitable Heir already. And make no mistake, I will be settling that unfortunate miscarriage of justice in short order. The Regency of that House is more ideally suited for another, who I will be meeting with in the near future. And as for the third...".

He laughed, but the sound was biting and edged.

"Never fear, my Lord," he whispered quietly. "When I pull on that little thread...be prepared for _everything_ to change."

Despite himself, Angruk's eyes widened in shock as he rapidly parsed through the opaque words to dwell on the rich undercurrents of what had remained unsaid. He stared at the human's burning eyes which held deadly promise.

And then he laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the first settings of the table are put in place, as Ambrose schemes at the ways he can embarrass and tear down the political future of his manifold enemies. In many ways a typical Gringotts chapter, I wanted to edge away from the lists of the money and the jewels that tends to be typical of these chapters and focus on another reason why a young heir might want to lay claim to multiple political dynasties. 
> 
> Haven't given as much attention to the goblins as I should, but they will be featured in later chapters so we'll see more from them. 
> 
> I was planning on writing a multi-scene chapter, but as I completed this segment, it seemed complete to me. The next chapters may be one scene chapters as well, or multi-scene as I kind of figure out what I want the typical length of my chapters to be. 
> 
> Also, just in case the dialogue of the chapter wasn't clear, Ambrose has now inherited the leadership of three Houses. They are as following:
> 
> The House of Slytherin- Ambrose claims the Lordship of the Ancient and Noble House of Slytherin because the main branch of that family died out in the male line, leaving the descendants of the female line...of whom the last surviving member is Voldemort. 
> 
> Ambrose's father was the head of the British House of Hollington and the Iberian (Spanish) El Casa de la DeSalizarse "to glide, or slither", the original lineage from which Salazar Slytherin is descended, creating his own cadet branch in England during the late 9th and early 10th century. Ambrose, the sitting Patriarch of the House of DeSalizarse is naturally, entitled to reclaim all of the property of Salazar Slytherin, which upon the death of the last descendant to bear the name, was locked down in 1432. The Gaunts had their own wealth to fall back on, and the claims of ancestry to the British House of Slytherin via the wand of Salazar Slytherin and his locket. 
> 
> As the only living son of Menelaus Hollington-DeSalizarse, Ambrose is the next Lord of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Hollington. A powerful family that has more often than not stayed out of the politics of the era, particularly as the vitriol between blood purists and muggleborns metastasized. 
> 
> And as the only living son of his second father, Charlus Potter (who in this fic will be the brother of Fleamont Potter), Ambrose is the eldest Potter alive at the moment, with Harry a minor. As he was believed to have died, James naturally didn't consider him to be his Heir. As such he cannot take over as the true Lord of House Potter until Harry dies, but he can hold the position of Regent of the Ancient and Noble House of Potter until Harry reaches his majority at 17 (If Harry was the last living Potter, he would be eligible to claim the Lordship at age 13.). As such, he is in a similar position as Augusta Longbottom, who would be the Regent of the House of Longbottom. He can control the investments, the votes and the wealth of the Potters until Harry is of age. 
> 
> I haven't really explained the Wizengamot and the history behind families of the Noble and Most Ancient and Ancient and Noble Houses, but it will soon be clear that Ambrose holds a great deal of wealth, as well as legislative and judicial power now which will enable him as stated in the chapter to create chaos. 
> 
> As for the other Houses that Angruk the heir to the Goblin Hoard alluded to?
> 
> Through his mother, Dorea Potter née Black (who in this story will be the youngest sister of Arcturus rather than his cousin), Ambrose could easily claim Regency over the House of Black as of the moment, the House has no clear cut Head, with Sirius who is by all accounts the Heir Presumptive, if not Heir Apparent, in Azkaban. 
> 
> The second House referred to is the Noble and Most Ancient House of Peverell. Unlike similar stories, the House of Peverell currently is not extant, though descendants still exist in Ambrose Hollington, Harry Potter and Voldemort (who will be of a bastard line through Cadmus and thus not eligible to inherit unless all other descendants are dead). Ambrose as the eldest legal claimant to that House could become the Head of House Peverell. He doesn't want to, and would rather save that for Harry. If Harry should claim that family, the Ancient and Noble House of Potter will lose primacy to the elder House. Harry would become Harry Potter-Peverell. Will it happen? We'll see...
> 
> And as for the third...well, the less said about that right now, the better.
> 
> Next chapter, Ambrose begins flexing his political muscles as he begins his role as envoy to the ICW, makes a visit to a distant relative and begins his search for his minor cousin.


	3. Rituals and Visitations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ambrose celebrates a time honored family rite after claiming the Lordships of his family's respective Houses, and receives an unexpected visit from an old friend who brings disturbing revelations that portends complications for his plans...

** _Adeptus Rising_ **

_Chapter II: Rituals and Visitations_

**o0o**

**June 23, 1993**

**Wellis Cottage**

**Inverness, Scotland**

**Albion**

_"Incendio."_

Ambrose smiled nostalgically as the small pit in the backyard of the Wellis Cottage, a simple house that was one of the ancestral properties of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Hollington, lit up with a large plume of flame. In seconds, the cheerful red-gold tongues of fire crackled and burned merrily. 

Lighting the Flame. It was one of the earliest traditions that he had been taught by his Father when he had been a small boy, not even five. Every family among the thirteen Noble and Most Ancient Houses that were acknowledged as the Ecclesia Arcanum had some version of this ritual that was to be performed by the members of the household at dawn, the day after the conclusion of the Solstice. It was an act of devotion to acknowledge to the various spiritual entities that a family might be allied to that despite the encroaching darkness to come, they would keep the light of their devotion burning strong. 

It was different with his Uncle Fleamont and Aunt Euphemia. The Potter tradition had the members of the household greet the dawn with a solemn chant of dedication and renewal of purpose, to the Ancient Ones. It was very beautiful of course, and he had always enjoyed honoring the Gods that way as well, but for him, the Hollington traditions (which incidentally shared several similarities with the traditions of El Casa de la Deslizarse) were what he loved best. 

He had arrived to Wellis Cottage near sundown, after concluding his meeting with Lord Angruk and the managers of his Houses' assets. It had been agreed that there was time enough to meet with each of the managers individually, in order to have a proper discussion concerning the state of the vaults, any inventory that needed to be conducted, and a perusal on the state of any present investments as well as the possibilities of expanding said investments. 

In any case, he already had a steady income from the lands of the Deslizarse marquisate in Iberia, and access to plenty of galleons which had been converted from the Emir bullion to Galleons a week before he returned to Albion. He wouldn't lack for funds anytime soon. 

The cottage had been in fairly good repair, all things considered. Apparently according to Sir Thaddeus, it had been the favorite courting spot of Dorea and Menelaus when he was endeavoring to help her get comfortable with the idea of sharing her Charlus with him in sacred matrimony. And considering his existence...clearly the spot had worked its enchantment. It also was pretty much in a neighborhood filled with Muggles, as the British tended to refer to the mundane, and was therefore a place that Menelaus had thought would be quite educational for Dorea to learn a bit about what Muggles were like in the modern age. 

Despite its good repair however, years of disuse had made the place rather dusty and filled with cobwebs and moths, though thankfully not more of the more pernicious magical vermin like Doxies. He had spent the waning light hours banishing away thick clouds of dust and cobwebs and 'encouraging' the moths to find a different place to nest and breed. After that, he had to air out the place, scrub down the floors and sinks and walls. After that, he had to unearth the appropriate coverings for the bedroom that he was currently occupying, a guestroom as he wasn't yet prepared despite his years of foreknowledge to claim any of the master bedrooms in any of the numerous properties that he owned for himself. That of course, would have to change quickly, especially if his plans with regards to his young cousin were ever to come to fruition. 

Probably the worst indignity of all was the bare cupboards that had greeted him after expending so much magic over the past thirty hours, but that was fixed by a quick jaunt to Muggle Edinburugh and one of their local diners where he ordered slightly greasy, but perfectly edible Asian-themed cuisine. 

And now, as he faced the fire, Ambrose silently and wandlessly summoned the offering that he would give to the fire to seal his pact with the Ancient Ones. It was an effigy symbolizing his devotion to the Old Ways, a stone replica of the ancient Celtic _triskele _that represented in his mind the magical and spiritual properties of the Three Realms: The Land, the Sky and the Sea. It wasn't a particularly expensive offering, but a lifelong allyship with the Ancient Ones and the various benevolent spirits that were Their emissaries at times had taught him that the most powerful offerings were given when you imbued the offering with the essence of who you were. This was a _triskele_ that he had carved carefully, methodically out of clay by hand during his fifth year at the Magical Academy of Ibiza. And with a couple more steps, it would be more personalized and with any luck, acceptable to his Patrons. 

Withdrawing a dagger from the pocket of his leather jacket which he had acquired in New York three years before, Ambrose quickly and efficient sliced his palm, hissing at the brief flare of pain that quickly faded to irritable twinging. As the blood welled up, he let the drops fall unto the surface of the _triskele_, the focus of his Will causing the blood to seep into the grooves of the swirling sigil, rather than splatter gruesomely against the hardened clay. He continued to direct the flowing blood until all of the grooves gleamed crimson. Then with a quick healing spell (_arctissimum caro_), he sealed the cut and levitated the _triskele_ into the air, above the leaping flames. As the ancient symbol twirled in the air, he closed his eyes and focused his Will and pushed. 

Gasping a bit as he felt the rush of power leaving him, he opened his eyes to see the swirling patterns of the _triskele_ glowing a luminescent emerald color, representative of his magical signature (a mixture of red and green with hints of silver). Pouring as much power as the clay effigy could safely handle, he then traced the _triquetra_, another symbol representing the unified and yet distinct nature of the Three Realms in the air, smiling as the faint traces of emerald light lit up the sky. 

"_By the Land, the Sky and the Sea_," he intoned reverently, "_I acknowledge the care of the Ancient Ones. Though darkness may spread and cold permeate the fading Earth, I acknowledge the Magi's Fire, the most precious gift of the Gods as a reminder that the Light of the Blessed can never be extinguished. Oh Blessed Ones, may my offering be acceptable in your Sight, as once more we renew our bond of allyship as the Wheel turns towards the seasons of harvest and sacrifice. So be it_."

Then releasing his hold on the irradiated offering, he allowed it to plunge into the fire. Instantly, the flames turned from a cheery red and orange to a deep emerald and shot up several feet into the sky while a blast of Wild Magic flared into existence, rocking him back. 

Then, silence.

The emerald flame winked out of existence, leaving only a few tendrils of smoke and a pit that had been scoured clean, save for a silver ash that glinted even in the slowly lightening sky. As Ambrose steadied himself and looked at the unexpected exchange that had been left behind, he frowned thoughtfully. Conjuring a glass bottle, he spent the next couple of minutes summoning each particle of silver ash, placing it into the vial before corking it, and a sealing spell around it in order to preserve the magic. 

How interesting and unexpected. For the Ancient Ones to leave something behind, indicated that the ash would be needed at some point during the waning months. Though for what, he couldn't begin to guess. 

With one last bow towards the now empty pit, he turned around and walked back inside the small cottage. 

It took several minutes for Ambrose to do more than carelessly lounge on the aged divan that held pride of place in the small parlor. The ritual had been very powerful and while he didn't feel debilitated in the slightest, he knew better than to assume that just because he felt strong and euphoric, that his energy reserves must therefore be at maximum capacity. 

Eventually however, he got to his feet and shuffled upstairs to the bathroom to take a long restorative bath before facing the challenges and opportunities of the day. 

Half an hour later found him swiftly dressing in dark coloured house robes of Oriental design, about as casual as he dared when spending significant time in the magical world, and debating the merits of either Apparating to the nearest Muggle market to purchase some basic groceries or traveling to a eatery and taking out again. 

He had just about half-managed to convince himself that, yes, though he wasn't the most skilled culinary expert in the magical world, he could indeed make a decent omelet thank-you-very-much, when a brief twinge in the wards gave him less than a second of grace before a sharp 'pop' announced an unexpected visitor. 

"The young Master has survived after all. Plinthy is grateful not to have to give sad tidings to his poor Master of young Master's unfortunate demise."

Ambrose froze.

"Plinthy?"

The diminutive creature bowed low.

"Young master recognizes Plinthy. Plinthy is so pleased. He had feared that the young Master had forgotten Plinthy existed, since the young Master never calls for Plinthy." 

Ambrose sighed in fond exasperation. Plinthy had been the house-elf belonging to Sir Thaddeus who had been assigned to be his personal house-elf, mere weeks after losing all of his family to that terrible and cowardly attack. It had been due to his dry, oftentimes sarcastic verbal delivery and his tendency to run roughshod over him whenever he thought that the young boy was doing himself more harm than good, that had succeeded in bringing the grieving child he had been out of his shell. Over the years, Plinthy had been a loyal elf, if a rather taciturn and mischievous one for all that he was over a century old. He stayed faithfully at Ambrose's side until the end of his final year of instruction at the Academy, when he had gone into seclusion with the acolytes of Rinpoche Diyuua, in the mountains of Asia. It had been four years since then. 

Bemused, he watched as the still rather sprightly house-elf (they had the potential to live for more than 500 years, if they were well cared for and treated with respect) carefully inspecting the state of the old cottage, though more than likely he was inspecting the skill of his cleaning charms. Plinthy was very exact in his ideals of how a home should be kept in order, and woe betide you if you didn't conform to those high standards! 

At last the house-elf pattered down the stairs from checking the bathroom and with a last cursory look around the kitchen, nodded approvingly at Ambrose. 

"Plinthy is pleased. Young Master recalled the lessons that Plinthy had to hammer in his head for many years. Wellis Cottage is in an acceptable shape. But Plinthy is most displeased at how bare the larders are. There is being no food suitable for the young Master to eat at all. Was young Master planning to transfigure air to meat in order to be fed?" 

Ambrose sighed again. 

"Actually, I was planning on ordering takeout—"

His explanation trailed away as he saw Plinthy swell with indignation, shaking his head and muttering in disgust.

"Takeout. Bah! Delivery. Bah! Oh, how Master would groan to know how the young Master would eat such inferior food!"

Actually, Sir Thaddeus would probably laugh and order an extra helping—at Ambrose's expense, but he certainly wasn't going to explain that to the taciturn elf. 

Plinthy shook his head and rubbed his long-fingered hands in dismay.

"No, no, such will never do," the elf said at last. "Plinthy must prepare for the young Master a proper breakfast. Plinthy must then be purchasing provisions, yes." 

With a shake of his head, Ambrose snapped his fingers, summoning his money pouch. Reaching inside, he drew out ten Galleons and extended it to Plinthy, who summoned the coins to him with a crook of one finger, before snapping the coins away in a flash of elf-magic. 

"Very well. Young Master must sit and suffer the pangs of hunger and thirst as a lesson while Plinthy purchases the necessary provisions and prepares a proper meal for the Head of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Hollington." 

With a loud sniff, Plinthy Apparated away with a snap of his fingers. 

Over the next thirty-five minutes, as Plinthy shopped, returned and began making breakfast for his charge, Ambrose spent the time busily looking through the small collection of books that had been stored in the master bedroom. Unfortunately there were no rare tomes filled with obscure and dangerous magics, rather there were books concerning household charms, a few battered and older editions of popular educational textbooks, some penny dreadfuls and back issues the Daily Prophet, Witch Weekly and interestingly Simmering Secrets, a now defunct Potions magazine that had been edited by the legendary Hector Dagworth-Granger, last Head of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Dagworth and a world famous Potions Master who revolutionized popular potions such as the Pepper Up, Dreamless Sleep and the Wiggenweld Potion. 

It seemed by all appearances that the cottage had clearly been owned by a female relative who led a simple, homebound life in the cottage. Not necessarily the life he would choose if able, but one that was noble and worthy nonetheless. 

He might have actually cracked open one of the penny dreadfuls, but sensing the presence behind him, he replaced the old book and turned to see Plinthy bowing low.

"Young Master," said Plinthy, "breakfast is being served."

The house-elf escorted Ambrose back to the parlor, where a decent-sized table had been set up with Ambrose's breakfast laid out. Before he could thank the his old helper, Plinthy drew the chair out with magic and gently pushed him to it. Ambrose sat down and stared with some measure of amazement at the breakfast before him: Eggs Benedict (his favorite way to eat eggs) and steamed salmon with sauteed asparagus and fragrant toast. A steaming silver kettle of what smelled like Jasmine tea was set slightly apart from the spread, with dishes of butter, honey, a small pitcher of cream and a bowl with assorted berries. 

"Plinthy," he said with honest awe, "you've outdone yourself. Thank you for this."

Plinthy bowed, but Ambrose frowned a bit.

"There's only one setting? What about you Plinthy? Won't you have breakfast?"

Plinthy snorted.

"Plinthy is gratified that the young Master hasn't forgotten his manners," he said, "but Plinthy knows precisely how many settings he be putting out. Plinthy was privileged to dine with the Master before traveling to his young and still foolish Master." 

Ambrose flushed a bit at that. Of course he would have set more than one place if he hadn't eaten. Unlike many other house-elves, Plinthy wasn't shy of being seen. He was also not afraid to dine with either Ambrose or Sir Thaddeus, who always welcomed the house-elf who had been his caretaker when he was young at the table. 

Unwilling to endure anymore verbal lashings from Plinthy, he picked up his fork and knife and commenced tucking in. For the next several minutes, all that could be heard was the clinking of utensils on the plate as Ambrose found himself consuming almost the entirety of what had been set before him. It seemed that he had been hungrier than he thought, no doubt thanks to the earlier ritual. 

Finally however, when he had finished his meal, and Plinthy had cleared the table, washed and put away the dishes and ensured that the kitchen was spotless, the two returned to the parlor where Ambrose took his seat on the divan, though he sat upright to avoid falling asleep due to the sumptuous breakfast. 

"My thanks again, Plinthy for the breakfast," inquired Ambrose, "but why exactly have you come?"

"Is it not enough that Plinthy had to go four years without sight or contact with the young Master?" huffed Plinthy, rather crossly. "Young, thoughtless Master did not share his news with the Master. Oh, my poor Master, languishing for want of information about matters with the goblins. He is sending Plinthy in the hopes that he will get word on whether matters have been settled or no."

Now it was Ambrose who snorted in amusement at the dramatic description of his foster father. He was an excellent magician and a cunning politician who could be fearsome when crossed, but the man could also be over dramatic over the silliest things. 

Shaking his head fondly, Ambrose rose from the divan as he stood before the house-elf.

"Very well then," he said lightly. "Please pass on the following message to Sir Thaddeus." 

For the next couple of minutes, he proceeded to report all that had occurred in the meeting held at Gringotts, including the unexpected participation of Angruk, the heir to the King of the Goblin Horde. Once he had passed on the news, and Plinthy secured the words in his mind to be repeated, word for word with the vocal intonations when he stood before his Master, Ambrose sat back down on the divan. 

"And what news does Sir Thaddeus have to give to me?" he pressed, lightly. "Where do matters stand with the ICW? Has the representatives that the Council has chosen arrived in Britain, yet?" 

"The Master sends his regrets," replied Plinthy, "but reports that the envoys selected to the task set by the Master have been detained. They will arrive on the shores of Britain in three days time." 

"Three days?" questioned Ambrose sharply. "Why so long? The IEERA has already passed the Council. There shouldn't be any further debate on this matter!"

Plinthy scowled fiercely at that.

"Master be saying that the wicked, scheming Supreme Mugwump be calling an emergency session without warning. He be not wanting the wicked Mugwump to recognize how fast Master's allies be preparing to travel to Britain and start the evaluations."

Ambrose scowled in turn. Damned Dumbledore! Even when it was not necessarily intentional, his actions left much to be desired, as there would be the need of great delicacy in order to get the team out of the headquarters of the ICW before Dumbledore became aware that they were ready to act and used arcane procedures to hamstring his mentor's best efforts to implement the recently passed legislation. 

"Has Sir Thaddeus any knowledge of why the Supreme Mugwump would call for an extraordinary session out of the blue?" he asked Plinthy. He was expecting Plinthy to scowl and go on a strident rant on the many failings of Dumbledore, but was surprised and a bit disturbed to see the elf—hesitate; 

"Sir Thaddeus is not having complete knowledge yet," answered the house-elf slowly, "but...he be hearing whispers, young Master."

Ambrose straightened instantly.

"Whispers?" he asked, seeking clarification. 

Plinthy nodded miserably. 

"Yes, young Master. There is being whispers of trouble stirring in Hogwarts. Something terrible has stirred within her halls, and the wretched and unworthy Dumbledore is being removed as Headmaster."

Ambrose's hands clenched into tight fists and the room darkened as unconsciously, he began affected the weather with his magic. Something happening, something that spelled trouble was taking place right now at Hogwarts! His cousin, cousins if his genealogy was correct were studying there! What could be so bad that Dumbledore was considered more valuable outside of Hogwarts than within, especially when his hold on the school was so strong that he very much doubted that the old, wily bastard would ever be able to be removed from the school unless it was in accordance with his own wishes!

Abruptly, he stood. Plinthy jumped a bit, and bowed low, but Ambrose irritably waved at him to rise. 

"You've done nothing wrong Plinthy as you very well know," he snapped, before forcing his fluctuating emotions. "Thank you, Plinthy for the information. This was information that is quite valuable. With Dumbledore out of my hair for the moment, this will give me more leisure time to secure my positions and Houses so events can proceed with dispatch once the Educational envoys arrive."

He sighed. Nothing for it then, he would have to move at once to capitalize. 

"Plinthy?"

"Yes Master."

"Prepare my robes. It's time that I had a chat with the Chief Governor and lay claim to my place among their company. Perhaps I will also discover the truth of these—happenings as well."

Plinthy bowed low once again, but this time, as he lifted his head, his eyes held eager anticipation, as the older house-elf was very well acquainted with his young Master's moods. 

"As young Master commands."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus ends the latest chapter.
> 
> As readers can see, for the first stretch of chapters, I'm keeping them as concise as possible with only one or two-scenes per chapter. I'm hopeful that in that way, I can continue updating on a fairly regular basis. Still debating whether to add more scenes to the story, but until I make a final decision, there's no reason why those of you enjoying the story should suffer, right? 
> 
> I hope that you enjoy Plinthy, Ambrose's old 'friend' and house-elf. I was trying to envision an elf who was more akin to Kreacher in his mannerisms, but less toxic and gratuitous with his insults and demeaning prattle. It seems that Plinthy hits the mark with his grumpy, lovable self. What do you think? 
> 
> Also, for those who read the first posting of the initial chapter, a slight change will be taking place in term of the timing of this story. While originally, I had envisioned this story taking place just before the start of Harry and co's first year, I've decided to move the time up to the end of Harry's second year. His interactions with Ambrose will start at the very end of the year, when summer time begins. I may or may not incorporate some aspects of Prisoner of Azkaban into the storyline, but I'm still in the process of deciding if it will fit what I'm hoping to accomplish. 
> 
> As for Blaise Zabini? When will he show up? Don't worry, he will show up very soon...and when he does, fireworks of a different kind will be going off. 
> 
> Many thanks to those who gave a kudos, or commented or bookmarked...or all three. I hope I've responded individually to everyone, but if not then many thanks for reading my story! I'm glad that you're enjoying it so far and hope that you'll continue to support it. For the rest of readers who come across this story...welcome! If you like what you're reading, please share your thoughts below, or give me a kudos or even bookmark if you want to follow the latest updates. I appreciate all of you and thank you. :)
> 
> Next Chapter, Ambrose launches his campaign as he pays certain governors a visit...


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